


Heads or Tails?

by kiichu



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Drabble Collection, Gen, Heavy Angst, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-08
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-03 21:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14578245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kiichu/pseuds/kiichu
Summary: When Thanos snaps his fingers, fifty percent of all life disappears. Keyword:all.Each chapter is for a different character not focused on/shown in the movie, and their fate is decided by a coin toss.Heads: they die, Tails: they live.





	1. Loki

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimers: 
> 
> 1\. I **firmly** believe Loki lived/will be brought back somehow in Avengers 4. Yes, I'm on that train, riding it in the conductor's car. I will not give up hope, and will not acknowledge his "death" as canon, no matter what the writers/future movie reveals. 
> 
> 2\. I have not seen Infinity War. I know of what happens, know the details, etc., but I saw spoilers and the first scene and decided it was not something I wanted to put money towards. I hope this doesn't deter anyone, as I am confirming details with someone who has seen the movie.
> 
> 2.5. I don't know how long I'll keep this going, but my rage at IW is fueling my desire to write fanfic for now, so as long as it burns, I suppose!
> 
> 3\. I welcome suggestions for future chapters. Right now, as you can see in the tags, I have Vulture and Killmonger planned, but apart from them, I don't know who else to write about. I prefer villains, but if you want to send in suggestions, I'll definitely consider them. :)

**(Heads)**

 

His lungs twitch to life, forcing stale air through his body as his mind tries to wake itself up. The crushed skin around his throat tries to push oxygen (or whatever has become a substitute for it) through the narrow space; like a low-burning fire, the feeling is ever-present, hot -- but not completely uncontrollable. It’s a slow effort, the seconds dragging on and on as his windpipe painfully attempts to mend itself together again. His whole body aches, the dull agony thrumming rhythmically in his chest - along with his heartbeat that simply refuses to cease.

He can’t feel where he is, exactly, but it’s not on any surface. The last memory he has is a cruel cocktail of love, grief, and bitter acceptance. He had been well aware of his own death, staring it straight in the face with a brave smirk, yet it seems once again his body denied him.

Once he is able to get a few breaths in, Loki’s eyes crack open. The blurred images of stars and voids surround him, and for a moment, he wonders if he’s only conjured up his most recent memories as a coping mechanism. Perhaps he had never made it to earth, never met Thanos, never rekindled his love for his brother. Perhaps the Loki he imagines is only a figment of his imagination - a mere shadow looming behind him, first cast when he had truly lost all hope.

But his body says otherwise; his throat in particular, squeezed tightly by the monster until his bones cracked, holds all the proof he needs in the form of bruises and scars. The sight of his hands lifelessly reached out in space comes into view, and he notes that his hands look cracked and worn. He’s been through so much, recently, evident in the rough calluses that cover his fingers. Certainly he’s been through battles before, but he’s never quite had to _defend_ something to the degree he had tried to.

Indeed, he’d tried so _hard_ , tried to conjure up a final attempt to end the life of the titan that had ruined his - but it fell through, just as his plans always do. He’s supposed to be the God of Mischief, and he can’t even deceive someone as primitive as Thanos; what _would_ his dear brother think?

That is, if Thor is even still alive.

Loki had tried his best to save his brother, but who knows what happened after his neck shattered under Thanos’s fist? The very moment after the loud _snap_ echoed out, the world disappeared into darkness. And now, _now_ he’s here, suspended in space as he clings desperately to the hope that Thor somehow made it out.

It’s unlikely, but perhaps their combined luck and karma had been enough to save him. Perhaps Loki and Heimdall’s deaths had pushed him into a rage - a rage strong enough to break the chains that bound him and escape.  

It’s reaching, Loki knows, but what else can he think at this point? He blinks back the wetness behind his eyes, knowing that tears will do nothing. Even as he struggles to take breaths in, even as his heart speeds up in slight panic and worry, he tries to calm himself with thoughts of Thor.

 _Thor_ , who deserves to live more than anyone else. _Thor_ , who is his rightful king, his beloved brother, his best and only friend. _Thor_ who, despite how much Loki’s done wrong, always held space in his heart for him.

The truth is as clear as the stars Loki floats through: if Thor had perished on the ship and Loki now somehow lives, it’s proof of a disgustingly imbalanced world. Odin had said it himself - Loki’s birthright was to die, and yet here he remains, wallowing in his own misery in the middle of the galaxy.

He wills his body to _move_ , to stop floundering in sorrow like a suffocating fish and _do something_ , but he is far too weak. His fingers twitch, his eyes blink to try to clear his vision, but it is a sluggish process. By the time he gains his bearings, everyone could be dead, and the urgency definitely isn’t helping his fragile state of mind.

 _Get help,_ he thinks, pieces of memories still fluttering around him like flies around a corpse. _No, we’re not doing Get Help._

The tiniest hint of a smile graces his chapped lips at the thought of himself draped over Thor lifelessly, trying to convince their enemies that he was dying. Essentially, Loki reflects, he’d just done the same back on the ship - only he was deceiving _everyone_ , including himself.

His recollections are broken by a tingling sensation in his outstretched arms. With slight alarm, he wonders if his eyes know how to play tricks as well as his mind, for the image of his own body breaking into small fragments is a bit unexpected. He can see the pieces float away into space and dissolve into nothingness. The numbness that overcomes him completely eclipses the pain, though, so it’s almost not unwelcome.

The breaking particles travel up his arms, down his legs, and through his middle until it envelops his entire form, and he realizes - once again - that this is it for him.

_Ah._

Even in his hazy mind, he can sense familiarity in his fate. The Infinity Stones, the Gauntlet, it’s all clear: somewhere, on another realm perchance, Thanos has won. Now, fifty percent of existence will die - and Loki’s been one of the chosen. _Fantastic._

Loki wonders if his death will set the universe right, but he isn’t the optimistic type, and he certainly doesn’t hold that much importance in the grand scheme of things. He is merely one of many, many deaths - sacrificed like a lamb to Thanos to feed the vision of a better world.

He’s never pretended to understand Thanos, but he knows the thrill of ambition and allure of tyranny - perhaps better than anyone. He knows that whatever Thanos craves will never be enough. Whatever he seeks, whatever he’s hunting after, it will never satisfy him. Power is an delusion, worthless and lonesome after looking past its trickery and appealing nature.

Loki knows his thoughts are probably worth little more than a sentimental fool’s rambling, but it’s comforting all the same to think that it will all backfire someday. Someday, Thanos will be the snake eating his own tail, and Loki will watch from Valhalla or Hel and _grin_.

But despite the charm of the eventual satisfaction that situation will bring Loki, Thanos does not have the privilege of occupying his last thoughts - that role belongs only to Thor.

_The sun will shine on us again, brother._

Perhaps not this time - not this _time_ \- but in another world, another realm, another string of possibilities and choices and fates… perhaps the two of them are sitting on Asgard with Mother and Father, ruling with kind hearts and clear minds.

 _Perhaps._ It’s enough to bring him peace.

Loki focuses the last of his consciousness on the illusion of a happy outcome, and meets the supposed end with the gentlest of smiles etched onto his face.

The sunlight is warm as it greets him.


	2. Vulture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Vulture's fate. Next will be Killmonger, and then I'm out of ideas. Comment some characters you'd be interested to see!

**(Heads)**

 

“Toomes, you got a phone call.”

Adrian lifts his head, a tired smile crossing his features. Phone calls are his saving grace in this hell, providing him some brief moments of comfort in the form of his loved ones’ voices. It wasn’t often, but that just made it more special when the time finally came around. This day was no exception; mornings in prison were understandably rough, but this particular one had been extra difficult, in the form of a familiar man with a scorpion tattoo coming around to bother him again. No matter how much the thug pried, Adrian kept his lips tightly sealed about Peter - it was the least he could do, considering the debt he owed to the boy.

But that’s all water under the bridge the moment the guard calls him over. It’s routine now, but Adrian rolls his eyes as he’s patted down before entering the phone room. There’s always a brief moment of hesitation before he picks up the line, small anxieties chewing on him like… well, like a vulture to its prey. He can’t help but worry, in those split seconds, if this is Doris with divorce papers to sign, or Liz about to disown him. But every time, it ends up being just his mind playing tricks on him, and he remembers how lucky he is. Just as he’ll do anything for Doris and Liz, they’ll do anything for him - that’s the adhesive bond sealing their family together even during this hard time.

“Adrian?”

The sound of his wife’s voice instantly calms him, and he can tell by her tone that she’s not upset. It’s just a regular, routine phone call to catch up - like he was away on business and not imprisoned.

With a smile, he responds, “Hey, honey. How are my two girls?”

He can practically hear the smile in her reply. “It’s been a bit difficult, but we’re both fine. Liz is doing okay at her new school, and my mother and I are making sure she knows she can talk to us about anything.”

Though he knows she can’t see him, Adrian nods. “That’s good to hear. I’m sure she misses New York, but I think this is for the best, for now.”

“Any news on the trial?” Doris asks. “Last time, you said it would be in a few months.”

The answer isn’t as black and white as one would think; the judicial system is fickle in its priorities, and something like Adrian’s trial is newsworthy - he did mess with Stark’s belongings, after all - but not so much as another alien attack or even a Spider-Man sighting. It’s painstakingly slow, and Adrian grows more frustrated the more time passes.

“I don’t know. They keep changing it up on me,” he says, honestly. “I’m sorry, Doris.”

“It’s alright, I know you’re not in control of it.”

He inhales slowly and shakily. “No, not just-- not just about _that_. I’m sorry the two of you continue to suffer because of me. This was the opposite of what I wanted when I started… doing what I was doing.” Swallowing hard, he can hear a slight crack in his voice; they’ve had this conversation before, the apologies and even some yelling and crying. It never gets any easier, even as time passes; on the contrary, it only gets harder and more painful the longer he’s away from them.

There’s silence on the other end, deafening and cruel. He holds his breath, wondering in the quiet if he’s said the wrong thing this time - if that was the final straw for her. He’s so frightened of losing what little he has left, but it’s not as if he’d blame Doris or Liz for leaving him. They were all his choices, his bad decisions, his sins - they didn’t deserve to be taken down with him.

Still, the thought of losing them is enough to unsettle him - and on particularly bad days, it completely paralyzes him with fear.

Doris’s voice breaks him from his dismay, her tone clipped. “Liz wants to talk to you, Adrian. I’ll call you again soon.” After a beat, she adds softly, “I love you.”

“I love you too,” he returns, and hopes Doris knows how true that statement is.

There’s a shuffling noise, and the phone is presumably handed to Liz on the other side. “Dad?”

Adrian’s heart lifts considerably when he hears his daughter’s voice for the first time in a long while. “Hi, gumdrop. How’re you holding up?”

He imagines she’s twirling a string of hair around her finger, just like she did back when she’d be chatting with a friend on her phone at home. Her tone is friendly and warm - definitely not what he deserves, but what he’s glad to have all the same.

“I’m doing alright, Dad. I miss you, though.” She trails off for a moment, and the old familiar guilt tries to clamp its talons onto him.

“I miss you too, baby,” he confesses. “I wish I could be there with you, but you don’t need to see the trial. It’s better for you to be with your mother and grandmother for now.”

“Yeah, I get that,” Liz says quietly. “I’m still mad at you, but it doesn’t mean I want you to be in jail forever. I just...”

However slight, Adrian’s already upset Doris with his words, and he’s not about to do the same with Liz. Quickly changing the subject, he asks, “Hey, how about the new school? You’ve got to be the most popular girl already, right? Any boys givin’ you trouble? You can tell ‘em your dad went to jail, heh. Might scare them off.” He smirks, trying to imagine the terrified teenagers’ faces after his daughter tells them her father is a hardened criminal; he can’t help but admit it brings a sense of paternal satisfaction.

“I miss my friends from home, but I’m trying to adjust. The new school’s boring, and the classes are easy...” Liz continues to recollect her experiences at the new school, covering everything from the excitement of Science class to the pitiful food in the lunch program. Adrian smiles as he listens to her rambles, reminding him of similar conversations they’d had before at the dinner table.

As he’s listening to his daughter chatter off, however, his eyes drift around the room, to the guard standing sentry at the door. Something’s… off about the man, though he has to squint to truly see what it is. Either he’s losing his mind in his middle age, or he’s walked into the set of a horror movie.

Chunks of the guard’s arm begin to chip away, falling into dust below him.

Adrian’s heart drops into his stomach, watching the guard realize what is happening, scream, and disappear within seconds.

He can still hear Liz talking on the other end, and tries his best to focus on the sound of her voice, but he can see more guards beyond the glass pane of the room. Some of them are disappearing slowly, as well, fading into nothingness before each other’s eyes.

Briefly, he has an unfortunate memory of the Shocker, and selecting the wrong weapon to use on him. Watching the man disintegrate into red ashes was something he still dreamt about to this day, the weight of what he’d done heavier than he expected.

“Dad? Was that screaming?” Liz’s whisper breaks through his memory. “D-did I hear screaming over there?”

He nods, forgetting completely that she can’t see him. “Something’s happening with the guards. I think I should go--”

“Wait!” Liz cries out. “Wait, something’s-- Mom? Mom?!” The panic in her voice feels like a bullet, practically knocking him off his feet.

“What’s wrong? Elizabeth, what’s wrong with your mother?” he demands, trying to drown out the yells and cries of both guards and prisoners. Something’s happening out there, but he can’t focus on that. The only two things that matter to him may be in danger - and he _can’t goddamn help them_!

Adrian repeats her name, both of their names, hearing Liz’s shrieks die down to sobs. She’s hushed as she speaks, her voice trembling. “D-Dad, Mom… sh-she just… she m-melted, or something, I-I don’t know…!”

The burden of what she’s said doesn’t register right away; the only thing he really notes is how upset his daughter is - and how much he needs to be there with her, to face whatever’s going on.

But he can’t - and it’s all his fault.

“Dad? Dad?!” she yells. “The same thing is happening outside! P-people are just… dissolving! What’s happening!?”

Despite the panic bubbling up like boiling hot water, he needs to keep himself calm, needs to assure his gumdrop that things will be okay - even if they won’t be.

“I don’t know, baby, but the same thing’s happening here. Lock the doors, get yourself to safety.”

“I- I don’t want to hang up! I can't leave you!”

Of all the times to not be on a cell phone. Adrian curses his need to be old-fashioned and have a landline phone still installed in his home. But he can barely focus on that, as his heart nearly stops when he notices, almost _absentmindedly_ , the tips of his own fingers breaking down. It’s a numb sensation physically, but the despair that hits him - along with his daughter’s muffled, distressed breathing on the other end - is painful enough.

It hurts more than anything Spider-Man or anyone else could do to him.

“Elizabeth,” he chokes out, watching the sensation travel up his arms. “Liz, I love you. I love you  _so_ much, and I’m sorry for everything.” He doesn’t know why this is happening, doesn’t know why there are still about half of the prisoners and guards still around while the others are being turned into ash, but it no longer means anything to him.

All that matters is telling Liz how much he loves her.

“Dad? Dad, what’s going on…? Are you okay?”

“I love you.” He just repeats it, closing his eyes. His body’s breaking down and he can feel it, can sense every fragment evaporate into nothing, but he won’t look. He can only hope, only _pray_ to whatever deities are out there, that Liz is spared from whatever is happening to the world.

She’s suffered enough, and Adrian would die ten times over if it meant she was exempt from this fate.

“D-Dad…?” He can hear the terror in her voice, and it _aches_. What good is he, her _father_ , if he can’t be there to hold her? If he can’t be there to chase the fear and pain away, like he had when she was a little girl?

But he _can’t_ be there, and he _can’t_ save her from anything, especially since he’ll be gone in mere seconds.

In the end, there’s nothing he can do. The nightmares have morphed into something much scarier than monsters under her bed, and he lost the right to be her hero long ago.


	3. Erik Killmonger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh man this one is super long compared to the first two. Erik was so much fun to write for, oh my god. He's so angry, it's great. (This is, of course, pretending he survived Black Panther)
> 
> With this, I'm out of ideas for characters - if you have any suggestions, please comment any Marvel character! c:

**(Tails)**

 

 _Fuck this_ , Erik thinks. _Fuck them, and especially, fuck you, T’Challa._

He paces, just like he does every day from dawn til dusk - or whenever his internal clocks determines to be those times. It’s infuriating, having to stalk back and forth in a disgustingly bright space that reminds him more of a hospital room than a prison cell. It’s an average-sized room with a bed, desk, bookshelf, and even a bathroom. There’s thick vibranium-based glass acting as a door, trapping him into a clear box for anyone who happens to pass by the dungeons (or wherever-the-fuck he really is) to view.

Much to his dismay, he knows he can’t fight his way out; he’s trapped in this cell to rot or await trial or whatever the amazing _king_ has in store for him. And yet, despite his justified misgivings, he knows it could be much, _much_ worse than it is. This isn’t the first time he’s been held captive - far from it, actually - but it _is_ the first time he’s been treated decently.

Erik doesn’t know what to do with decent.

This pity, this mercy, this… what-the-fuck-ever, he _hates_ it. It crawls under his skin like a parasite, gnawing away at his flesh bit by bit until there’s nothing but bones. He feels horribly exposed, like an animal in a zoo - left to just pace, pace, _pace_ back and forth until his body decides it’s time to sleep. The minutes bleed into hours, the hours to days, the days to weeks until he doesn’t know how long it’s been since his fight with T’Challa; he’s losing his goddamn mind, and _no one_ _gives a shit_.

Sure, they can put on the act of care, coming in and asking him if he needs anything, or feeding him at routine times, but he knows he’s little more than a physical manifestation of T’Challa’s guilt. His dear cousin couldn’t obey his enemy’s final wishes and let him die, so he had to save his ass and lock him up to be forgotten about eventually. All because T’Challa doesn’t have the _balls_ to accept that sometimes, the world is fucked. Sometimes, the supposed heroes can’t do shit with their peace and harmony-seeking agendas, and it’s up to those with the loudest and most violent voices to make a difference.

Erik knows T’Challa will never see things his way, though, and it’s as simple as the two boys being raised in different environments. The king has no idea, no fucking idea, how much their people suffer all over the world - because he hasn’t experienced it. But Erik has been face-down on the ground, has tasted the worms and dirt and used that feeling of powerlessness to _gain_ power. It’s a process someone like T’Challa can _never_ understand.

His blood still burns with anger, each pound of his heart against his ribcage like a war drum leading him through battle. His fingers curl into fists, his jaw hurting from the tension of tightening the joint. They continue to keep careful tabs on him, but Erik wishes they would just kill him and get it over with. T’Challa’s idea of mercy is torture; Erik has _so many_ words to speak, but it’s like there’s a muzzle over his mouth that keeps a tight grip on his tongue, and the silence is _agonizing_.

He wouldn’t be putting up with _any_ of this shit if he wasn’t feeling so weak. Really, if he still had the power of the Black Panther swimming through his veins, he’d have smashed through the door to this cage long before his mind started to collapse in on itself. But he supposes that’s why they stripped him of all his juice; T’Challa needs his _best trophy_ to sit nice and pretty on display, after all.

So, yeah. _‘Fuck T’Challa’_ just about covers how he feels at every goddamn moment.

Growling under his breath, Erik continues to walk back and forth, his stomach’s complaints signaling that it’s nearly time for dinner. Where the hell are the guards? He has half a mind to chuck something at the security camera keeping close watch above him, but last time he’d tried something like that, the brat princess didn’t shut up about how much ‘energy and care’ went into developing the technology, and that he shouldn’t be messing with it. It’s not as if Erik cared about pissing her off, but the ranting was enough to make him want to claw his eyes out.

Eventually, though, he gets fed up with waiting, and decides to yell instead of throwing things - for now, anyway.

“Hey!” he snarls, lips curled back as his palms press into the glass surface separating him from freedom. “Are y’all gonna feed me today, or what?!” If T’Challa suddenly had a change of heart and decided to let him stew in his own hunger, it would be perfect timing (as he was _so_ hungry). In fact, if his cousin had grown a pair and decided to torture his captive, Erik would almost be impressed.

But there’s no way T’Challa would consider letting his prisoners starve, as his precious daddy probably dubbed it inhumane or some stupid shit. T’Chaka definitely favored more _sophisticated_ methods of executing those that opposed him, like sinking his claws into their hearts.

The mere thought of T’Chaka is enough to make Erik see red; that degree of rage doesn’t mix well with hunger, so he derails that train of thought before it can get going anywhere on the tracks. Instead, he strikes his fist into the wall a few times, letting out some energy through a scream.

“C’mon! Where the **_fuck_ ** are you!?” he demands. Do they even realize who he is? Well, yes, they must - he tried to rule them, after all - but they clearly don’t recognize his title or worth. If they did, they wouldn’t have stood for one of their rightful heirs to the throne being locked up like a fucking circus sideshow.

And finally, _finally_ , there’s thumping of feet down the hall. He sets his glare on the entrance to the cell, waiting for whoever to finally come into view with his meal. But to his surprise, the woman moving down the hallway just keeps going, hurrying as though in a panic. Erik considers himself to be perceptive, so he notes the anxious look on her face.

Quirking a brow, he steps closer to the glass pane. It’s not as if he can see into the hallway anyway, so he’s not sure why he bothers. If there are other prisoners in this block, he’s never seen them. Across from his cell is just a white wall, completing the boring-as-hell scenery (wouldn’t be his choice of design, for sure).

More sets of footsteps sound nearby, and a few Dora Milaje soldiers rush by, their spears pointed ahead threateningly.

Blinking, Erik opens his mouth to call out to them, but someone trailing behind them stops to notice him. She casts her sharp gaze over to him, and he finds himself for once at a loss of words.

Nakia looks like a trapped animal, her eyes wide and frightened. Even during Erik’s reign and the subsequent battle to the death, she hadn’t shown this much fear.

 _What’s happening outside these walls?_ He wonders, hunger forgotten for now.

To his surprise, she doesn’t keep moving, and walks up to him. “I doubt you have anything to do with this,” she murmurs, “but… I think you should be informed, nonetheless, of what’s going on.”

“Uh, yeah, that’d kinda be helpful. Thanks. And hey, any chance you could bring me a snack or something?” he snarks, smirking. She doesn’t seem in the mood for his playful tone, but Erik’s so terribly _bored_ (not to mention he doesn’t give a shit what’s troubling her).

With a sigh, Nakia opens her mouth to respond, only to be interrupted by another Dora soldier approaching. The woman is out of breath like she’s been _sprinting_ , and she matches Nakia’s panicked look.

“Nakia, it is spreading,” The Dora reports, her voice hoarse. “We cannot stop it. We--”

The guard’s voice cuts off, and Erik is actually _unnerved_ by the way the woman’s face twists into pain, her breath dying in her throat as she tries to release a silent scream. Her arms are suddenly breaking into tiny pieces, dissolving into the air as Nakia watches helplessly. The fragments continue across her body, vanishing in a matter of seconds, until nothing is left of her but dust.

Nakia closes her eyes, her face betraying her pain. Erik truly doesn’t know what to think of all this; one moment, he’s prowling his cage waiting for dinner, and the next people are breaking down into bits before his eyes.

It’s… it’s a lot to take in.

But Nakia seems to have the answer. Focusing back to her, Erik asks, “You wanna tell me what the hell that was about?” His words quake despite his best efforts to keep them under control; this definitely isn’t something to panic about, and he’s seen _much_ worse fates, but something about the atmosphere feels… off. The air’s got an apocalyptic stink to it - makes Erik wonder if T’Challa messed something up out there and caused a global war.

Nakia turns her back to him (the _disrespect!_ ), her arms hugging herself in a vain attempt at self-comfort. “Some people are… disappearing, all across Wakanda. But only _some_ . I do not know exactly why this is happening, but I think T’Challa does. He’ll be able to give some answers… once he returns,” her voice cracks at the words; it’s clear that she isn’t sure if he _is_ returning at all, and that frightens her.

 _Good_. Finally, something Erik can work with.

“If y’all would just let me outta here, maybe I could help,” he offers with a casual shrug. With a sly smile, he tries his best to dress himself up as sweet and sincere (much as it churns his stomach). He knows Nakia isn’t an idiot and wouldn’t listen under normal circumstances - but maybe with the threat of her boytoy dying looming over her head, she’ll cooperate.

She doesn’t give an answer, merely turns her head halfway to look back at him. Her gaze is focused on the floor, however, and she seems to have peaced out of this conversation already.

Fuck this. Her mind’s on a completely different plane of attention right now, and it’s _pissing him off_.

Slamming his arm against the glass, he shouts, “Maybe you didn’t hear me, _Your Majesty_ ,” he spits sarcastically, stifling the implication that he’d _ever_ accept Nakia as his queen. “I _said_ let me outta here. _Now_! I’m not getting any fucking younger.”

Nakia is frozen to the spot, but still turns her head as much as she can. Her eyes look lost, unfamiliar - there’s no emotion in them other than grief. Erik stares at her with mild curiosity, finally understanding the situation once she reveals her crumbling fingers.

“Don’t just stand there -- open the door!” he urges, realizing that she’s probably the only one he _could_ persuade to let him out. And it’s not even because he wants to usurp something - no, his top priority right now is _not_ disappearing along with everyone else, and figuring out what the _fuck_ is happening, and _why_.

Even if it’s not happening to all of the population… well, half of Wakanda isn’t the full Wakanda, and he isn’t going to rule anything half-assed.

“Nakia!” he presses, slamming his full weight into the surface now, as if it could do any good. “ ** _Open it_** _ **!**_ ” In the back of his mind, he wonders if she even has the means to let him out - but that thought is accompanied by despair, and he’d rather ignore it for now.

“The king will return,” she whispers, and she _still_ doesn’t move. He tries once again yelling her name in protest, but it’s a lost cause. She’s crumbled into dust in mere seconds, and he can only stare at the spot two women had stood less than a few moments ago.

Just like that. _Just like that_ , he’s alone again. And it’s not as if he can do anything else, so he waits and gawks impatiently at the piles of dirt that used to be two humans. Waits for what, he isn’t entirely sure, but Erik’ll be damned if he doesn’t expect the world to kick him in the teeth this time, too, and claim his life with the others’.

But… it doesn’t happen. He waits, and waits, the minutes bleeding into what feels like an hour, and still nothing. There haven’t been any footsteps sounding since Nakia - not that he expects anyone to come down here to check on him, anyway. He wonders, briefly, if there's even anyone left.

 _Only some._ That’s right, only some got the dust treatment - and of course Erik isn’t chosen. Of _course_. Of-fucking-course _this_ is the moment the universe decides, ‘Hey, maybe we’ll leave that Erik kid alone’.

He’s had enough of this bullshit. Baring his fangs to the world, he lets out as loud a yell as his lungs can allow, the low sound echoing off the walls until his own ears hurt. In fact, there's a lot more hurting now - not like he gives a shit. He may not be the Black Panther anymore, but he is a motherfucking _jaguar_ , and he’ll gladly destroy himself before he gets the chance to starve in a box.

The match’s been struck in his belly, embers crackling to life. The fire inside him builds wildly, quickly growing out of his control. It continues until it infects every nerve of his body with the familiar rage that’s guided him his entire life - and just like the blaze that had destroyed the heart-shaped herb garden, there’s no stopping it. No stopping  _him_.

He continues to roar until his throat becomes bloody and raw, broken bits of laughter rumbling underneath every time he snags a breath. There's just so much to _say_ here about the irony and almost poetic turn of events - but since no one's around to listen, he's still muzzled as always.

It almost goes without saying; whatever is claiming half of Wakanda’s life doesn’t even need to reach him - in the end, he’ll turn himself to ash.


End file.
